


Just Noise

by Keraha



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-04
Updated: 2009-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:45:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keraha/pseuds/Keraha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally posted at trek_rpf_kink in response to the prompt: "Zach/Chris. sense deprivation."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Noise

  
At one point, probably in that weird erudite place where Spock was slowly being stripped of ears and makeup, Zach had informed Chris that humans are always surprised by how they sound, because they always hear their own voices through the bones of their skull. So no matter how perfect the sound quality of a recording, Zach had said with a quirk of a half-shaved eyebrow, a line would never sound exactly the same in the actor or actress would hear it. Similarly, no matter how perfectly plugged earphones were, you can always hear the sound of your own voice. The only way you wouldn't is if you were actually, legitimately deaf.

At the time, Chris had attended to the fact like all the others that Zach would drop throughout the day, remarking on it briefly then filing it away in the mental Rolodex for some other, more relevant time. Admittedly, the Mental File Folder of Factoids from One Mr Zachary Quinto was getting a little full and a few things were starting to fall out the sides, but they were usually legitimately interesting and usually actually true. And sometimes he would come across an article in a newspaper or journal (or, yeah, he'll admit it, Wikipedia) that would directly contradict one of Zach's assertions and he'd file that away, too, in the File Folder Of Ha Ha Ha Victory Is Mine!

Today, Chris learned that the as of yet slim Ha Ha Ha Victory folder was to remain at least one item less full. Blind and bound, deaf to the sound of even his wrists against the headboard, he could hear the sound of his own breathing and the rush of blood pumping through his head. It was a crazy feeling, making him weirdly aware of each inhale, the way the warm air was sucked into his lungs, then with each pump of the heart (size of a fist, Zach had said, folding his fingers down one at a time, strongest muscle in the body, greatest endurance), oxygen was strapped to a blood cell and rocketed off on the grand tour of Circulatory System Pine. It felt like hitting your stride in the middle of a good run, like the world narrowing to the rhythm of breath and step.

Chris shifted, tugging at the implacable strength of the ties around his wrists and ankles. Well, not too similar, maybe. There was that minor difference of not moving anywhere and, you know, not being able to. Also, of not waiting for someone to do something to you. Circulatory System Pine wanted some more oxygen to the brain, though. Chris almost felt lightheaded from the anticipation. As he took in a deep breath, Chris imagined he could feel the current in the air against his sternum. When Zach was fastening his left ankle to the bedpost, Chris could feel his leg hairs standing on end, almost like little goosebump proximity alarms, and he was pretty sure that they served as some sort of alarm. It was evolution or something like that. There was probably something in _Planet Earth_ about, like, cave dwelling monkeys that could--

"_Oh shit!_" Chris gasped. He jerked in his bonds, as someone (Zach, presumably, but really it could be anyone) pinched his nipple and, seriously, _clung_. "Oh fuck, Jesus." He realized that he was kicking out with his left leg, as though that could do anything, and the sudden realization that he couldn't even hear that made him take in a deep breath and try to calm himself. The goddamn fingers still had their grip on his nipple and-- fuck fuck -- "Worst alarm ever!"

There was a puff of breath against his shoulder, and it took Chris a moment to realize that it was probably Zach laughing at him. The hand (probably, hopefully at least, Zach's) released his nipple but didn't stop touching him. Pressure across the lines of his ribs (bumpbumpbump, like those old laundry things you'd see in the movies) down to the line of his hip then pause. A circle drawn then lifted.

His skin tingled the entire length of where he had been touched, and it was somewhere between really weird and kind of hot.

"Hey, Zach," Chris said, just to hear the sound of his own voice traveling through his skull. How cool was that, anyway? "I can't figure out if this is awesome or not-- nngh! -- it's really making me -- haa-- making me -- unngh!" The hand returned, with heavy slaps, more like thuds against his stomach. Left of his belly button, the other side of the throbbing nipple. Abort sentence, focus on breathing.

Chris could hear the quickening tempo of his heartbeat, growing louder. He wished that it would be quieter, so that he could listen, try to anticipate. He forced himself to breath slower.

"Making me really jumpy," Chris finished. He could feel a bead of sweat gathering at his hairline, ready to drip. "I feel like I'm ready for anything now. Totally. Nnnngh." Another hard slap. Two more.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

His side was starting to feel warm. The sudden awareness of temperature made him conscious of the warm bedsheets under his back and the sweat-cool of his chest. He felt too exposed, all of a sudden. His arms, at first so casually outstretched, were apparently actually just vulnerable. His legs, terribly spread. He was open to anyone and anything, and he couldn't even hear them coming. The blindness, fine, he and Zach had played with that before, and he had certainly relished Zach beneath him, exploring the lines of his body with touch-drunk hands, but the lack of sound, the echo chamber of his head-- it left him too much room to think and too little to connect with the outside world.

So Chris breathed, goosebumps rising all over his body -- thanks, early alarm system, way to really help out -- and he listened to the sound of his heartbeats. He was aware of his nostrils and the rise and fall of his chest. He could still feel the ache in his nipple, another way to count pulses, and he could even feel the oddly distant throb around his ankle where his kicks had been constrained by fabric.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

"Hi, Zach," Chris said again. "I've decided that I'm not actually ready for anything. I'm really, totally not. I mean, I am, but, man, I don't know where you're coming from. And I really can't hear you. Good job with the ear plugs and stuff. I'm happy to say that you're right, though. I can hear myself talk, and let me tell you, it's pretty damn comforting from where I am. And if you're telling me to shut up, I have an excuse because I can't hear you. So, I hope you don't mind if I just let myself talk for a while, because otherwise it's going to get pretty lonely."

Breathe in.

Breath out.

"Uh, I'm kind of waiting for you to touch me soon, because otherwise I'm going to feel stupid. Not too much, because that would make you feel smug, but just a little bit. A bit as if I'm tied up and alone. Just a bit though."

In.

Out.

His heartbeats weren't slowing. He was still waiting for the next burst of contact, and even when they weren't forthcoming, it was the damn suspense.

In.

Out.

Focusing on his breath almost made it worse, because he wanted things to happen on the downbeat. As though he was a piece to be played in 4/4 time, and Zach was supposed to come in on one and three. But, really, Zach was some modern number, Stravinsky or something, coming in on awkward beats, random measures of some indeterminate signature.

"Zach?" Zach was right, within the confines of his own head, his voice sounded like someone else, not at all like the voice he was used to.

Chris felt the lightest of touches on the side of his face, either the brush of his hair or maybe just the tickle of the blindfold. Or, no, maybe this was actually Zach. It must be. The hand cupped his face, brushing a thumb across his bottom lip, and he may have opened his mouth, tried to suck it in. This was something he knew, blindfolded or not, deaf or not, the touch of a familiar hand against his face. He'd been kissed like this too many times to count, certainly enough times to recognize. He felt the bed drop a little under Zach's weight and he tried to lift his head into a kiss. The hand kept a gentle pressure on him, though, and he wasn't going anywhere.

"Zach," Chris whispered. "Please."

Zach just brushed his lips against Chris's own, against the corner of his mouth, along the edge of the blindfold. It wasn't enough pressure for a proper kiss, and Chris found himself trapped between impatience for more and the knowledge that he couldn't do anything about it. He began to pant, just a little, breath coming a little faster than before.

He wasn't begging. He was just a man who knew what he wanted. He felt the puffs of Zach's breath against his skin, and he knew that Zach knew what he wanted.

"Please."

For one beautiful moment, Chris thought that he had him. But in the space of one heartbeat to the next, Chris moved from certainty that Zach would do as he asked to something else. Zach's hand pulled away (reluctantly, Chris decided) and finally there was the damning lift of Zach's body off the mattress.

Chris panted.

His body was tingling all over, his face still felt the afterpressure of Zach's hands, and, more than anything, he was frustrated.

He wanted out of these bonds, he wanted his hands back, he wanted his legs back, he wanted to touch Zach. He wanted to do everything to the man. Pull him in, stroke down his side, seek out those tickly bits that always made him squirm. He wanted to open his eyes and see Zach and his horrible, wonderful sex hair, wanted to hear Zach's low rumbles, deep in his throat. He wanted to be free, to stop waiting. Chris could stop it. He had the words. Zach had deliberately left his mouth free, when he had taken every other sense from him. It wasn't to let Chris know that it was actually possible to hear a voice through a brain, as interesting as that little experiment would be, but to give him the power to end the scene. Zach liked these power games. He liked the exploration of sexuality through mentality, liked bringing a certain cerebral edge to the otherwise carnal acts. He also knew that Chris was the opposite. They'd done enough to know that Chris liked the games just fine, but he didn't -- couldn't-- jump straight into whatever headspace the way Zach could.

Zach kept a constant pressure along Chris's body. He ran a finger down the sole of his foot, tracing the line of his arch, then swooping up the inside of his leg. Zach traced along the muscle of his calves, the line of his knee, and Chris's muscles tensed.

That hand lifted, and another dropped along the line of his collarbone, dipping into the divot above his sternum. Down between his pecs, detour around one nipple then a lazy figure-eight around to the other. A pinch to the other nipple, hurt flaring in that one and a sympathetic ache in the other.

There was something comforting about it. Zach was grounding him. Then the pressure abated and Chris was alone again. Instead of the weird, cavernous loneliness of before, he knew that Zach was there, standing at the foot of the bed or at its side, watching him. And so Chris gathered himself and slowly, consciously, relaxed his muscles. There, the tension of his feet, toes no longer curled. His legs were relaxed, not fighting the bonds. He exhaled, dropped his arms to the bed, not realizing until that moment that they had been straining to move or not move. And finally, with a few deep exhales, he allowed the muscles of his neck, of his torso and back, to unclench.

Chris breathed. Without conscious effort, that fist sized muscle powered oxygen to his muscles to his brain, helped lead CO2 away. He was a collection of odds and ends, of the automatics of a human body. He breathed. He existed.

Zach's hand returned, cold and wet, and pressed up behind Chris's balls. Two fingers pushed up and in and Chris groaned. They pumped in and out, and Chris felt his hips working up into them. He felt his own fingers wrap around the bonds tying him to the headboard, felt the curl of his toes. He felt the working of his body under Zach's.

At any other point, Chris would have eventually expected a third finger or maybe Zach to just hold him open with his thumbs and slide in, but here, now, trapped in this body, there was no place for expectation. He was deaf to everything but the sounds of his own gasps, the hitches every time Zach pressed against the spot that made his hips jerk, the groans when Zach pulled away. He moved to Zach's rhythms, allowed himself to be played or used, depending which metaphor was most convenient. And Zach played or used him, pushing a third finger in, and Chris couldn't hear the wet sounds but he could feel the stretch, and he responded with the only thing he knew for a fact existed, his own voice, beginning with the contraction and expansion of the diaphragm, the vibrations of the vocal chords, the manipulation of lips and tongue. He said, "Yes, yes, yes, please," and when Zach went slower, he felt an uncharacteristic whine deep in his throat, and he said, "Zach, Zach." And when the tempo slowed to bare movement, making each movement an agony of potential, he was reduced to groans, deep and fervent.

There was no place for thought, just reaction, and even the want for more did not translate into words. Chris was the binds around his ankles and wrists, the blindfold, the earplugs. He was the stretch of muscle around Zach's fingers, the sparks of pleasure down his spine, the restless clenching and unclenching of uncontrollable muscles. He was nothing but a response to the hands that touched him, the lips that kissed him.

When the hand dropped away, he sobbed, wordless and wanting, and when -- an eternity later, a split second -- a hot mouth descended over his cock, he didn't have the breath to scream. He gasped and groaned and he knew that his hips were held down even as his body jerked and clenched but even the pleasure he was drowning in wasn't as solidly real as the ragged breath in his head, the wild pulse. He heard himself yell, shout, make noises that he would never be able to hear in the same way again.

After he came, and he quivered and spasmed as Zach licked him clean, he couldn't hear anything but his own panting. Zach was still a steady presence between his legs, a hand stroking up and down his thigh. He searched for words where words had escaped him.

"Untie me," he said. "Please, Zach."

And without hesitation, Zach's hand traveled down to untie first the right ankle, than the left, and the motions were deft. He reached up, leaning over Chris's body, still providing that contact, and untied his wrists. Immediately, Chris pulled Zach close, wrapping his legs around Zach's hips, and tugging him down for a searching kiss. "Still hard," Chris said. He spared one hand to pull down the boxer briefs that Zach was still in and waited as Zach did the appropriate acrobatics to remove them entirely. "My mouth."

Zach began to untie the blindfold, but Chris shook his head. "No, want. Finish."

For the first time, Zach hesitated, and Chris felt the vibrations of words travel through his chest.

"Come," Chris said. Zach began to crawl his way up Chris's body, and when he was straddling his shoulders, Chris opened his mouth for Zach and became, again, just so much noise.


End file.
